


closing the circle

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: John Rider is sent to investigate thedachaat the Silver Forest.(Canon divergence from the end of Russian Roulette.)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	closing the circle

**1.**

Serebryany Bor, the Silver Forest, lies on the northwestern outskirts of Moscow. It is a picturesque area of lakes and woodlands, dotted with the luxurious summer homes of the wealthy. The air is always clean and pure.

One portion of the woodlands stands out like a patch of festering scabs. The silver pinewoods have been charred black, and the sprawling white _dacha_ that had once stood in the centre of the rot is now nothing more than twisted rubble. Its fall had been swift and sudden. Servants who had once been employed there whisper that the tragedy had begun with the freak death of the Master’s son.

In reality, the beginning of the end had occurred a few days prior to the death of Ivan Sharkovsky.

**3.**

Scorpia does not leave loose ends. The operative, codename Rook, is assigned to investigate the disturbance at Serebryany Bor. Scorpia has unfinished business there, a target shot three times in the chest and stomach that had survived with the devil’s own luck. But Vladimir Sharkovsky is a frail, broken man now. It is time for him to die.

Rook does not return from the mission.

**4.**

The sun is just beginning to set in Venice, warm golden light gleaming off the white and pink brick of the Widow’s Palace in a pearlescent sheen. Inside, Julia Rothman smiles at her favoured companion over a glass of red wine.

“Serebryany Bor. Are you familiar with the place?”

John Rider considers the question for a moment. “Moscow, right? I’m not personally familiar with the area, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find information if there’s a job you need done.”

“A small matter, but one I think you will find interesting.”

Hunter may be Rothman’s current favourite, but he’s subject to her mind games like everyone else. That’s fine. He can work with this. “Does this have anything to do with Cossack? If I remember right, Serebryany Bor is where that boy of yours picked him up. Grant, wasn’t it? He was sent to kill Cossack’s old master.”

“That’s right.” Rothman slants him a smile. “Impeccable memory as always, John. Speaking of Cossack, he’s still failed to show his face again?”

John shrugs casually. “You’ve heard his history. Cossack’s a skilled kid, and he did well enough in our missions together, but he’s got too many unburied ghosts. I had the feeling he wanted to resolve some things before he returned to us.”

Quite possibly, John’s made a big mistake by not letting that spider take the bite – the life of one kid caught up in Scorpia’s claws isn’t worth being caught out in a lie and jeopardising his mission. But he liked Yassen, and the kid’s been dealt a shitty hand in life through no fault of his own. John wanted to give him a chance. It’s not any great hardship to suggest, subtly, that Yassen had planned to go back to Russia and confront his old master before returning to Scorpia. When Yassen fails to re-emerge, then he’ll simply be presumed dead at Sharkovsky’s hands, another failed investment to be written off.

An ignoble ending for one of Malagosto’s most promising graduates, but being presumed dead is the greatest safety John can offer Yassen. The rest is up to him.

“You may be right,” Rothman says. There’s a sly look in her eye that never bodes well. “We’ve heard rumours of a disturbance at the summer home of Vladimir Sharkovsky. I sent an operative to investigate, but they never reported back.”

Huh. “Grant, Cossack, now this new operative of yours… Sharkovsky must be more slippery than he seems.”

“Or the quality of our operatives has been declining.” Rothman lifts her glass, taking an elegant sip. Her lips leave perfect red crescents against the glass. “I’m overdue for a conversation with Headmaster Nye, I think. In the meantime…”

“Serebryany Bor.” John nods, sharper now, all business. “Yes. I’ll investigate.”

Rothman gives him a fond smile. “Try not to take too long. Russia is such a dreary place, and I have much more interesting work for you once this is done.”

**5.**

John’s always got an easy way about him that encourages trust and loosens tongues, but that particular expertise of his isn’t needed in this mission. Rumours of the _dacha_ are still circulating like wildfire; everybody loves a good mystery, especially when it concerns a man as powerful and hated as Vladimir Sharkovsky.

“There was trouble even before the fire. You know Ivan Sharkovsky? Loud man, didn’t ever shut up. I heard from a friend of a friend that he went missing a few days before the fire.”

“And where’s this friend of a friend now?”

John’s informant can only shrug. “Who knows. Not everyone made it out before that fancy house burnt down around their ears, did they?”

**7.**

“Ivan Sharkovsky? Bah. He must be dead, or he would’ve turned up somewhere by now. But, now, Maya Sharkovsky, that’s more interesting…”

**9.**

_No one has seen Ivan Sharkovsky for a few days now. The household staff are discontent. There are whispers of blood on the cellar stairs. The Master’s prized Dalmatian is missing as well._

_“He must’ve gone hunting and got himself lost?” The kitchen boy jokes, but nobody laughs. An uneasy pallor hangs over the dacha. The shadows are too long, the rooms too cold. The chill never leaves, not even when the fireplace is piled with logs and the fire stoked so high that the walls flicker with red light._

_Then comes the Mistress’ death. Or maybe it’s another disappearance. No, she’s just been sent away somewhere, her health had been fragile the past few days…_

_It doesn’t take long at all for new rumours to spread. A curse. Divine retribution. The dacha sinks deeper into grim foreboding._

_One of the housekeepers has been unnaturally quiet since the disappearance of Ivan Sharkovsky. One night, quieter and colder than the rest, she admits in hushed tones that she found blood in the Master’s study, a great black pool of it, stinking of rust and rot._

_Then the fire comes._

**10.**

“They’re all dead, then? The entire family?”

“Officially? They’re missing. Except for little Sveta, she’s still in England, poor girl. But you ask anyone around here, and they’ll all tell you family’s dead.”

“You sound very sure. But I heard there were no bodies found, were there?”

“You can believe what you want. But Vladimir Sharkovsky had many enemies. One of them finally caught up to him, and that’s the truth.”

**11.**

_Scorpia does not tolerate failure. Every member of the organisation knows this, and the operative known as Rook is no different. The first anniversary of his graduation from Malagosto had just passed; a promising sign, the highest rate of fatalities occurs in first year graduates. Survival past the first year is a favourable indicator of five-year survival._

_In his year on the field, Rook had travelled extensively through Eastern Europe. He had been involved in everything from gang violence to mid-level assassinations. It was a dangerous life, but the risks were manageable and the pay lucrative._

_Even if he had second thoughts about his chosen occupation… Scorpia does not tolerate hesitation or failure._

_Rook knows this. There is no reason he should be delaying in front of this burnt-out patch of woods in the Silver Forest, but some sixth sense is blaring a harsh alarm. He goes anyway, passing under the skeletal branches, through the suffocating cold. His breath mists in front of him. The world dissolves into monochrome, white snow and charred black trees, pale breath against the dark of his gloves._

_The road leads him past the crumbling outer walls of the dacha. The brickwork had fallen into complete ruin; it had only been a week since the fire, but if Rook didn’t know better, he would have said the destruction happened months ago. The grounds are more of the same. He can see the outline of sweeping paths and what had once been a grand fountain of gods and mermaids, only now the marble scorched black, the mermaids’ crumbling faces imprisoned in glittering ice._

_Looming over it all is the dacha. Its twisted remnants block out the pale winter sunlight. Shadows crisscross the ground. The forest is silent._

_Rook’s gun is in his hand. He doesn’t remember drawing it. The grip of it should be a reassuring friend, but today, it feels heavy and unwieldy under his hand, the angles all wrong, edges digging into his skin._

_“You shouldn’t be here.”_

_Rook whips around. There was nothing behind him a second ago, but now there’s a pale young man watching him, the expression on his face as cold and detached as winter itself. He is standing in the middle of the path. It’s as if he appeared out of thin air._

_Rook points his gun at him. “Hands up. Who are you?”_

_“You shouldn’t be here,” the young man repeats. He speaks flawless Russian, and something about him is strangely familiar._

_It finally clicks. “Yassen Gregorovich?”_

_Expressionless eyes watch him, unblinking. Gregorovich’s profile had been included in the mission files Rook was given, but his photo had failed to capture the heavy chill that wreathes around Gregorovich like a fogbank._

_“I was sent to investigate,” Rook explains. Technically, he is the senior field operative here and owes nothing to Gregorovich, but something about this whole situation has him on edge. “What happened here? Is Sharkovsky dead? Why haven’t you reported back?”_

_Gregorovich steps closer. He moves with the fluid grace of a dancer, seeming utterly relaxed, but the look of focus on his face is absolute._

_“You are a Scorpia agent?”_

_“Yeah, you can call me Rook. You’re Cossack, aren’t you?”_

_Gregorovich doesn’t appear to hear him. He steps closer still, close enough that it sends Rook breaking out into cold sweat. He tries to move away, put some distance between them, but some unknown force roots him in place. His heart thunders in his chest._

_“I never wanted to join Scorpia,” Gregorovich muses to himself. It’s cold. Why is it so cold? “They should not have sent you here.”_

_It’s so cold._

**12.**

He never wanted to be a killer. He thought he would rather die than be a killer.

He wishes they would all leave him to his solitude.

**13.**

Serebryany Bor, Moscow. The snow swallows up all the noise in the world as Hunter makes his way through the silver-dusted pinewoods. In a moment of uncharacteristic sentimentality, he wonders if Yassen ever had the chance to enjoy quiet serenity of the woods outside the _dacha,_ or if his entire life had been spent caged in by brick and iron.

Hunter shakes those thoughts away. No time for softness; he still has no idea if Yassen is involved in…whatever this is. Smoke and whispers. All that time spent investigating, and Hunter still hasn’t gotten a single concrete answer.

Time to do some field work. The journey to the ruins of the _dacha_ is quiet and uneventful, but Hunter is wary, moving light on his feet. Scorpia operatives don’t simply vanish. Rook must have encountered a hostile force, it’s safe to assume he’s now either dead or captured, and whoever got him would be very interested in getting their hands on Hunter as well.

That’s not even getting into the question of Yassen. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the _dacha’s_ fall had come shortly after Yassen supposedly vanished to make a new life for himself in Russia. Had he misjudged his former apprentice so badly? He thought Yassen didn’t have the makings of a killer, but…

Too many questions. John clears his mind and focuses on his surroundings. No recent signs of life that he can see, but considering the constant snowfall, any footprints or tracks would have been wiped away long ago. There’s nobody in sight either, and yet, Hunter can’t shake off the feeling of being watched.

He does a slow careful sweep of the perimeter. Nothing. He has the feeling that the _dacha_ holds the answers he’s looking for.

_Completion,_ something sighs in him. _Unfinished business must be settled. Come._

John’s not in the habit of listening to whispering voices in his head, but something pulls his feet inexorably onwards. Call it the infamous Rider daredevil curiosity. Whatever it is, it brings him right through the front gate. If anybody’s watching, he’d make an easy target, standing right in the open like this.

Nothing comes. He doesn’t get shot or ambushed. Once he’s inside, Hunter keeps to cover where he can, the feeling of being watched never once letting up.

The logical place to start his investigation would be the main body of the _dacha_ , but Hunter’s instincts keep him at the outskirts of the complex. There is a small dirt path worn smooth from countless pairs of feet, and at the end of the path is a series of featureless cabins, remarkably untouched by the fire. _Servant housing,_ Hunter quickly surmises. Yassen must have lived in one of these cabins, once.

His feet carry him forward, a slow, steady pace, until the last and smallest cabin comes into view.

Somehow, it feels inevitable that he would see Yassen there.

Yassen is standing by the door, face turned up to the weak winter sunlight, his eyes closed. He looks – remote. Untouchable even by the cold. He must have heard the crunch of Hunter’s boots against the snow, but he makes no move to turn and face him.

“Yassen,” John calls quietly. “Or am I talking to Cossack now?”

Yassen doesn’t stir. “You stopped using that name for me after Paris.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be Cossack.”

“I could have.” Finally Yassen opens his eyes. John has seen every shade of emotion on Yassen’s face before, from exhaustion to pain to anger to quiet devotion, but this blankness is new and terrifying. “I could have made myself want it. Why did you stop me?”

Uneasiness trickles down John’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“I found the truth.” Yassen’s gaze grows abstract. “You should keep a closer eye on your belongings. Do you remember the canvas bag you had when we travelled together? The side pocket, the one where you keep your valuables.”

Valuables, like his wallet and phone. Like the MI6 radio transmitter disguised as an innocent battery.

Hunter had plans in the event of his cover being blown. Mostly those plans involved things like a cyanide pill, or going down in a blaze of gunfire – anything, as long as it ended with him dead before Dr. Three could get hold of him.

None of those plans involved facing down Yassen’s quiet calm. Is he a threat? Hunter’s fingers itch for his gun, but John holds himself back, meeting Yassen’s calm with his own. No need to antagonise Yassen; he’ll kill Yassen if that’s what it takes to protect himself, but he’d rather not until he has to. “How much have you figured out?”

“I didn’t tell anyone your true allegiance, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yassen replies coolly, but this time there’s a flicker of the young man John had known, the apprentice who had craved Hunter’s approval like a flower seeking out the sun.

He can work with that. “I didn’t think you had,” he says, light and casual, only to stop when Yassen’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Don’t patronise me.” His voice is very quiet. “I’m not your student. I never really have been, have I?”

“That’s not true.” John is entirely serious now, watching Yassen carefully, taking his measure. It’s like facing down an injured wolf, he thinks. Wary and untamed, all the more dangerous after the injuries it had suffered.

It’s so cold. When did it get so cold? His breath fogs in front of him in billowing white clouds as he searches for the right words, Yassen watching him the whole time, unnaturally still, colourless except for the blue of his eyes. The air in front of him is clear.

John frowns, disturbed. “The skills I taught you were real. I thought of you as my apprentice, one of the fastest learners I’ve ever known. I wanted you to succeed.”

“But not with Scorpia.”

“Not with Scorpia,” John confirms. “I meant what I said to you in Paris. I didn’t think you were suited for this sort of life and I wanted you to get out while you still can.”

“And you would be robbing Scorpia of a weapon at the same time.”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? His betrayal had cut so deep because Yassen had idolised him. Loved him. And now he’s left wondering if John had been using him all this time, if he had been nothing but another mission parameter. John can’t deny it entirely, so he doesn’t even try.

“You’re right. Part of my job was to sabotage Scorpia, and that includes undermining its new recruits. But, Yassen, you meant more to me than that. Do you know how many times I’ve regretted getting tangled up with Scorpia and MI6 all these years? You’re not like me. You’re still so young. You can still start over again. I want you to have that chance.”

And, finally, Yassen’s facade cracks. He presses his hands against his face. “You’re lying. You’re telling me what I want to hear.”

“No. No more secrets. You haven’t betrayed me to Scorpia and I’m not going to repay you by lying to you. Everything I’ve just told you is the truth.” John watches him with growing concern. “Yassen…”

No response. In the sunlight, in the snow, Yassen is so pale that he is almost translucent around the edges.

“Yassen,” John says again, pushing back the rising tide of alarm and dread, “what have you done? Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you guessed yet?”

“Did you kill Vladimir Sharkovsky?”

Yassen’s arms drop to his side. His head remains bowed.

“What about Sharkovsky’s son? His wife? The fire, was that all you?”

“I didn’t want to be a killer,” Yassen murmurs.

“But you killed them anyway,” John surmises. The feeling of dread grows stronger. “Why? Revenge?”

Yassen’s head moves in the smallest of shakes. “Not at first. It was only after…”

“What _happened,_ ” John demands, but Yassen shakes his head again.

“I wasn’t in my right mind. Who would be, after that?”

The temperature is plunging lower still. John’s teeth chatter, his breath comes in great plumes of white as he rubs his gloved hands together and stamps his feet. Relentlessly, the cold sinks into him, right down to the marrow of his bones.

Yassen keeps standing there, supernaturally still. He does not seem to feel the cold. His chest does not rise and fall. No breath mists the air in front of him.

An unsettling idea had been forming in John’s mind all this time, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to face it. “What will you do now?” He asks instead.

A small shrug. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You should go.”

Self-preservation tells John that he should leave while he still can. But something else holds him back, the embers of compassion and humanity he had to stamp out these past few months in order to survive Scorpia. It isn’t hard to connect the dots. Yassen had been ready to take his advice and flee the shadowy underworld of assassinations and espionage entirely. Then, within the space of a scant few hours, something vital had changed, and now Yassen stands in front of him, pale and hollow-eyed, surrounded by death.

John’s betrayal. That had been the catalyst of it all. He pushes back the guilt.

“There’s nothing left for you here either. Come with me,” he says, half an offer, half a command. “I’m not due back in Venice for at least another week. We can spend some time together until then.”

A flicker of expression passes over Yassen’s face, nostalgia shadowed with regret. “Like we had in Paris?”

“We had some good times together, didn’t we?” John smiles encouragingly. “Come on. We can work out the rest together, one step at a time.”

Yassen hesitates. “I can’t trust you.”

_What do you have left to lose?_ John thinks cynically, just a touch cruel, but mostly he feels creeping tiredness, worming its way in through the freezing cold. He had failed when it came to Yassen. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. “I’m not asking for your trust. I betrayed you. It wasn’t anything personal, I was just doing my job, but it doesn’t change what had happened.” What he had driven Yassen to do. “Let me make it up to you.”

“…Why? What do you get out of it?”

Nothing at all. He’s doing this purely for Yassen’s sake, but saying that out loud is too honest. “If it helps, you can think of it as me easing my conscience. I want to help you, Yassen. You deserve more than being trapped here.”

When Yassen doesn’t respond, John steps closer. The cold hits him with a physical force, a deathly grave-chill that almost freezes his heart in his chest. John grits his teeth against the pain. “I’ll help you move on. I promise.”

The pale ghost in front of John closes his eyes. “Go. I’ll follow you.”

The way out of the _dacha_ seems much shorter than the way in. All is silent except for the muffled thud of John’s footsteps against the snowy ground. Overheard, the sun is a pale disc just beginning to dip towards the horizon, its light warming from pristine white into soft, flaxen gold. A gentle wind picks up, rustling through the trees, scattering away the bitter cold.

At the edge of the _dacha,_ John finally stops and turns back, but there’s nothing behind him, no one following him.

Yassen is gone.


End file.
